His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance)

by Dorothy Clark

  He shook his head. “You stay with your mother and Jonathan. I’ll get one of the sandwiches.” He started down the stairs, stopped and looked over his shoulder. “And, Clarice...”

  “Yes?”

  “I like your hair that way.”

  The look in his eyes stole her breath.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The shaking woke him. No. He couldn’t have a bout of malaria now. He hadn’t finished the page layouts for tonight’s printing. Charles gritted his teeth against the pain he knew would streak through his muscles and rolled onto his side. Hopefully, the medicine would hold off the worst of the attack so he could get to the Journal building and finish the composing.

  He shoved his arm out from under the blanket and reached for the knob on the drawer in the stand by his bed. A shudder shook him. He yanked the drawer opened, grabbed the bottle of tonic and pulled it to him. His fingers were shaking so hard he couldn’t make them obey. He fumbled with the cork, finally got it out, sucked in a breath and held it to steady his hand. The bottle shook. He lifted it to his mouth, tilted it up. A small bit of liquid trickled onto his tongue.

  Empty.

  “No!” He tried again, scowled. He’d been so taken up with Jonathan he’d forgotten he needed to get another bottle. Another shudder took him. The bottle fell from his hand, hit the floor with a thunk. The bell on the mantel clock chimed out the hour.

  Six o’clock. He bit back a moan, curled into a ball and tugged the blankets close around him, shivering and shaking. Let it be a short, mild attack, Lord. I have to get out the paper. Jonathan! Clarice. Clarice would take care of Jonathan. He closed his eyes, set his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering and waited for sleep to take him.

  * * *

  Clarice settled her hat forward of her new swept-up coiffure, pinned it in place and turned from the mirror. She didn’t want to confront the accusation in her eyes concerning the real reason she’d let her mother leave the trim on her dress and the flowers on her hat. She was having a hard enough time with her jumbled emotions. “I’m ready to leave, Mama.”

  Her mother stared up at her, smiled. “You look beautiful, Clarice.”

  “Thank you, Mama. But I think your opinion may be just a tiny bit influenced by the fact that I’m your daughter.” She swept her gaze over the table beside the bed. “Do you need anything before I go?”

  “Not a thing. I’m all dressed and ready for breakfast.” Her mother patted the writing box on her lap. “I’m going to work on fillers until it’s time for my carriage ride.”

  “What?” She gave her a teasing grin and pulled on her gloves. “No more clandestine sewing?”

  “Not unless you hand me that green wool dress you’ll be wearing when the weather cools. A touch of ivory ruching at the neck and cuffs would be just the thing to brighten it up a bit.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You’re incorrigible, Mama.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “It means I love you.” She opened the door, wiggled her fingers in farewell and closed it behind her.

  The stairwell was dimly lit by the trimmed oil lamp on the wall shelf. She cast a sidewise glance at it, her fingers itching to turn up the wick. She would—the day she moved out. Whenever that might be. She crossed the entrance hall, the light of its oil lamp already snuffed at the first hint of dawn, and stepped out onto the porch. A shiver chased down her spine at the touch of the chilly predawn air. She might be needing that green wool dress soon.

  She hurried down the porch steps and out to the gate, quickened her steps as she started up the sidewalk. A brisk walk would warm her.

  Fingers of gold probed through slits in the gray sky, feathered out into beams of morning light. Birds twittered their wake-up songs. In the shadowy light ahead the lamplighter snuffed the flame of a street lamp, shouldered his tool and strode on to the next.

  She crossed the intersection, glanced at the dark facade of the Journal building as she walked by. It would be busy there today. Charles hadn’t finished composing the pages for today’s issue before he came home last night. She would enjoy doing that job. But even though Charles approved of the work she’d done in her accidental foray into composing, with his attitude toward career women, that would never happen.

  She paused at the next intersection, waited for a wagon to pass, then hurried across the street. But one thing was certain. When Mrs. Hotchkiss returned— Her heart squeezed at the thought. She ignored the pain. She had to be prepared for the day when Mrs. Hotchkiss took over Jonathan’s care, and she returned to the full pursuit of her career. The day was fast approaching. Too fast. It was only two days from now. She jerked her thoughts away from leaving Jonathan. When she went back to work at the Journal building, she was going to visit Clicker’s “domain” and have him show her how to run the printing machine. She’d coax if she had to. Those clicking sounds were intriguing.

  The sun’s rays had widened. They gleamed on the windows of Charles’s home. It was a beautiful house. She glanced up at the balcony that formed the roof of the porch. How lovely it would be to stand there in the moonlight with Charles when Jonathan was sleeping and— Stop it!

  She hurried up the steps and into the entrance hall. No dimmed lamps here—the oil lamp poured out warm, welcoming light. She paused by the stairs to listen for voices, though it was still early for Jonathan to be awake. All was silent.

  Time to fix breakfast. She moved on to the kitchen, removed her hat, laid it on the step-back cupboard and slipped on the apron.

  * * *

  He should be up and stirring by now. She must have been making too much noise to hear him. Clarice slid the griddle of sausage and potatoes to the back of the stove to keep warm, moved the coffee to sit beside it and stirred the oats.

  The clock in the sitting room gonged. Uneasiness gripped her. She added a pat of butter to the oats, slid them to the back of the stove and adjusted the dampers for a slow burn. She glanced at the table set for three, looked up at the ceiling and strained to hear any sound from above.

  A faint sort of sliding sound followed by a soft thump caught her attention. But it wasn’t coming from above. She frowned, tiptoed toward the doorway to the entrance hall, paused as the odd sound grew louder. What—

  She hurried toward the front door. Slip—thump.

  She halted, turned toward the stairs. “Jonathan!” She stared at the toddler, sliding down the stairs on his rump, his nightshirt wrinkled up around his waist and his bare chunky legs stretching down for the tread below him. Her heart froze. “Stop! Don’t move, Jonathan!”

  She lifted her hems and ran up the stairs, pulled the toddler into her arms and held him tight against her pounding heart. “Jonathan, you must never do that again! You could fall and hurt yourself! Do you understand me?” She loosened her grip, looked down at him then pulled him tight into her arms again. “What were you doing? Why—”

  “Me get you.” His words were muffled by the apron bib over her bodice.

  She relaxed her grip, struggled to get beyond her fright to common sense. “You were coming to get me?”

  His black curls bobbed agreement. “Brover no get up. Me do—” He grabbed a fistful of the apron bib and tugged.

  “You tried to wake brother, but he won’t get up?”

  He nodded. His blue eyes studied her. “You get brover.”

  “Oh. No, I can’t—” She clamped her lips shut on the foolish words. Jonathan would not understand propriety. She glanced up the stairs. Why wasn’t Charles awake? What if he was ill? She’d never known him to imbibe. Her stomach clenched.

  She settled Jonathan on her hip, gripped the banister and climbed the stairs, turning to the left at the top. There were two bedroom doors ahead, one closed and one open. Perhaps he was awake now. She stopped outside the open door, rapped her knuckles against the fra
me. “Charles...”

  No answer.

  She rapped again. “Charles...”

  There was a low moan.

  He was ill. Her heart leaped into her throat. She stepped into the dark bedroom, spotted a bed against the far wall. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she saw the covers twisted, hanging over the side of the bed, one arm dangling. “Charles...”

  “Brover get up?”

  “Not now, Jonathan.” She carried him to a wingback chair in front of a fireplace and lowered him to the seat, struggling to stay calm, to fight back a rising fear. Why would Charles not answer her? “I need to help brother. You sit here and wait for me.”

  Sunlight peeked in through the slats of a shuttered window beside the bed. She undid the latch and folded the shutters back, turned to the bed. Fear crawled up her spine. Charles stared up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy, his face flushed. His damp hair was plastered to his head and beads of sweat clung to his forehead. His body, twisted in the covers, shook so hard his teeth clattered.

  She laid her hand on his damp forehead, drew it back. He was burning up! She leaned over where he could see her. “Charles, it’s Clarice. Tell me what’s wrong. How can I help you?”

  He turned his head toward her, shuddered. “M-malar-ia. No m-medi-cine.” His eyes closed, opened again, focused on her. “T-take c-care of Jona-th-than.”

  “It’s you who needs care.” She looked around then ran and peeked in a door on the other side of the room. Jonathan’s dressing room! She filled a washbowl, tossed in some washcloths, grabbed a towel and carried them all back to the table under the window.

  “Me go potty?”

  She glanced at Jonathan and nodded. “Yes, you may go potty—” she squeezed out a washcloth “—but come right back here to me.” She shook out the towel and tossed it over her shoulder. “Can you get down out of the chair?”

  “Me do it.” He flopped onto his belly and wiggled backward, his chunky legs stretched down, his little feet groping for the floor. He touched wood with his toes, pushed away from the chair and padded off to the dressing room.

  “Charles...”

  His eyes were closed. She leaned over the bed and touched his cheek. “Charles, do you hear me?”

  His eyes opened, searched for her. “I’m going to wash your face with a cool cloth.” She wiped his forehead and temples, his cheeks and mouth and chin, drew the cloth down his neck to the hollow at its base. His pulse throbbed. She could see the skin rising and falling. Too fast. She dabbed his face dry with the towel, squeezed out another washcloth, folded it and placed it on his forehead then tucked the ends against his temples.

  “Th-thank—”

  “Hush.” She touched her fingertip against his lips, quickly lifted it away. “You need to save your strength. I’m going to straighten the covers now. I’ll be as quick about it as I can. I don’t want to chill you more.”

  She freed the sheet and blankets that were twisted around him, pulled them straight and tucked them in close. “Now I’m going to go and wash and dress Jonathan and give him his breakfast. Try to sleep. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  “Dr. Reese. Come in!” Clarice stepped back, pulled the door wide. The tightness in her chest released. “I’m so glad to see you!”

  “Is there something wrong?” The doctor stepped into the entrance hall, glanced toward the stairs. “Have the exercises harmed your mother, Miss Gordon?”

  “Mother isn’t here, Doctor. It’s Cha—Mr. Thornberg.” She closed the door, fought to keep the quaver from her voice. “He’s very sick, and I don’t know what to do for him.”

  “His malaria acting up again, is it?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said.”

  “Well, I’ll go up and take a look at him.” He headed for the stairs, glanced back and motioned her forward. “Come along. If you’re going to be nursing him through a bad spell, you might as well learn how to do it right. Did he take his medicine?”

  She lifted her hems and climbed, grateful that she had closed Jonathan’s bedroom door. Hopefully, he would nap through the doctor’s visit. He’d been very upset about Charles being sick. “He told me he had no medicine.”

  “Let it run out, did he?” The doctor shook his head and motioned her through the bedroom doorway ahead of him. “I warned him about that.” He stepped to the bed, looked down at Charles shivering and shaking, laid the back of his hand against his cheek.

  She took up a position on the opposite side of the bed. The toe of her shoe hit something, sent it skidding over the floor. She went to retrieve it, read the legend imprinted in the glass. Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic.

  “He ran out of medicine, all right. That’s the bottle.”

  She set it on the stand by the bed, closed the partially open drawer and watched the doctor uncover Charles’s arm and wrap his fingers around his wrist. The clock on the mantel ticked away the seconds, the sound ominous in the silence. The doctor frowned, covered Charles’s arm again. “Looks like this is going to be a bad one.”

  The words sent alarm skittering through her. She stared down at Charles’s flushed face, lifted the cloth on his forehead and turned it over to the cool side. Heal Charles, Lord. Please heal Charles. “What can I do to help him?”

  “There’s not much you can do but try and keep him comfortable.”

  Her stomach churned. Lord, there has to be something that will help him. Please help him.

  The doctor reached for his bag, looked her way. “See that he rests. And keep up the cold cloths—they help fight the fever and any headache and keep him from being so restless. And get as much water in him as you can. That’s important. I don’t want him losing body fluids and getting dehydrated. And give him two tablespoons of this three times a day.” He pulled a bottle of Grove’s Tasteless Chill Tonic from his bag and handed it to her. “It has to be shaken well before you pour out the dose then taken quickly so the medicine doesn’t settle. It’s bitter stuff. If you’ll get a spoon, we’ll start that immediately.” He gave her a smile and closed his bag.

  “Of course, Doctor.” She turned for the door.

  “It looks as if you are in for a sleepless night.”

  She froze, struck immobile by his words. She’d been so busy and so frightened she hadn’t considered anything beyond the moment. She turned back and lowered her gaze to Charles. He was so strong, so competent. And now he was so sick. Tears stung her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Gordon, I forgot you’re a young, single woman with a reputation to maintain. You can’t stay here alone with Charles, even if he is ill. I’ll have to find someone to nurse him.” The doctor’s brow furrowed. “You’ll have to stay with him meantime. It may take me a while—”

  Her chest tightened at the thought of a stranger tending to Charles’s needs. He should have someone who—who cared about him. The thought took her breath. She shook her head. “I will take care of him.”

  The doctor peered across the bed at her. “Are you certain?”

  Was she? She thought about Charles taking off his suit coat and wrapping it around her during the rainstorm...taking the basket from her on the stairs...pouring her coffee...holding her in his arms to comfort her... Yes. She was certain. But she couldn’t tell the doctor why. The perfect answer slipped into her head. She met the doctor’s gaze and nodded. “I would have to stay anyway to care for Jonathan.”

  “Ah. I had forgotten about the boy. Of course, you must stay and care for him. The matter is settled. Do you wish me to convey the message to your mother? I shall go to conduct her exercises—”

  “Mama...” It was a choked whisper of guilt. How could she have forgotten her mother?

  “Or...perhaps not.”

  She looked at him, her head spinning, her heart aching. Charles and Jonathan and her mother.
.. How could she choose?

  Charles moaned and curled into a ball. Shivers shook his body.

  She stared down at his flushed face, the perspiration on his forehead even with the cool cloth. He was in agony. His distress tore at her heart. She ached to comfort him, to ease his pain. “The matter is settled, Doctor. I’m staying.” She blinked her eyes, turned from his steady gaze. “Now... I’m going to get that spoon for Charles’s medicine. And water for him to drink.”

  “And I, Miss Gordon, am going to give this matter some additional thought.”

  She glanced back at him. He smiled, waved her on her way, then clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room, staring down at the floor.

  * * *

  Clarice ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, tears flowing down her cheeks. She wiped them away, grabbed a glass and set it on a tray on the work table, snatched a tablespoon from a drawer and stuck it in the glass. How was she to manage care for her mother? Mrs. Duncan would help, but where was she to find the money to pay her? And how would that help her mother’s loneliness, stuck alone in that room all night? Oh, what was she to do?

  Lord Jesus, I need an answer. Please give me an answer.

  She lifted down a pitcher from the shelf over the refrigerator, froze. The refrigerator! She pumped water into the pitcher, set it on the tray, then ran to the pantry, grabbed a large deep bowl and set it on the floor in front of the refrigerator. A few quick moves had the front board off and the drip tray half-full of melted ice water in her hands. She poured the ice melt into the bowl, replaced the drip tray and board, added the bowl to the tray and hurried for the stairs.

  She would find a way to earn the money to pay Mrs. Duncan to care for her mother. But there was nothing she could do about leaving her mother alone. Still, the doctor would explain, and her mother would understand that she couldn’t leave Jonathan and Charles.